


Family Matters

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [4]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Budding Romance, F/M, Father/Daughter Relationship, Sibling drama, first introductions to family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonardo confesses the events of the past twelve months to the family; April goes office-shopping; Celine and Dominic have a long-awaited conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confessions and Accusations

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 of the "2nd Time Around" series. Follows "Canvas" and "Old Ghosts", in terms of introducing Celine West and her relationship with Leo. See "Old Ghosts" for information on who Dominic West is.
> 
> Also, for the my fellow Apritello fans, this one has LOTS of Donatello and April. Stay tuned for some scenes between these two of which I am quite proud and excited to share with you all. Enjoy!

Twelve hours, forty minutes, and seventeen seconds.

The number of hours is meaningful, and the meaning isn’t lost on him. Twelve months he’s kept secrets, and so twelve hours he’s endured the Hashi. He doesn’t like it, but he understands. His father has a fondness for irony and subtle significance.

“Leonardo,” Sensei’s voice breaks the silence, exactly seventeen seconds after he’d entered, with calm and crisp tones, “Step down.”

More like, step down and try to not keel over like a starved dog. This was a different punishment than he’s ever dealt with in the Hashi before. The energy feels sapped from all four limbs, and his neck is aching like an iron rod has replaced the bone and concrete the muscle. He has a suspicion that Sensei made up this one as he went along. It would explain the five times he popped his head in and added something else to the “exercise”.

Amber eyes watch carefully, scrutinizing as he takes a moment to right himself. “Come here,” is the next command, and he obediently follows to the dojo. His brothers are there, lined up along the wall. All three look at him, but he doesn’t meet their gaze. Not yet.

Sensei gestures for him to sit, directly facing that scrutinizing gaze. He complies. He’s more than certain he knows what’s coming next.

Sure enough, his brothers are directed to sit alongside, facing him. He feels the weight of each gaze: Mikey’s curious wondering, Donnie’s nervous and shifting gaze, and—most distinct of all—Raphael’s accusing glare. His younger brother already suspects a grievous offense. Always so quick to assume the worst…and sometimes, rightfully so. This, sadly, may prove to be one of those times.

“Leonardo,” Sensei speaks again, “you have already confessed deceit to your family—to me,” the disappointment is all-too clear, and it hurts him to hear it in his father’s voice, “and I assume you appreciate the deservedness of your punishment.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

Sensei examines him a moment more. “However,” he says at length, “it was with great assurance that you swore you did not commit this offense with intended malice. That your motivations were merely selfish.” He pauses, then makes a small, halfway-inviting gesture, “Tell your brothers and I the truth of this.”

The command is, to an extent, expected, but hardly an easy one to follow. He had prepared a speech and explanation for Sensei, not his brothers. How can he explain that he, the one constantly warning them about getting involved with the human world, has been doing exactly that? His actions are those of a hypocrite. It is shameful to think he must admit such failure to his family, to those who look up to him as a leader and an example to follow.

_“When you make a mistake, beg for forgiveness from those you’ve hurt.”_

Dominic. He nearly smiles as the elder’s words return to him now. He can hear the tenderness in the man’s voice, and finds himself envisioning a younger version speaking the same words to a child with big blue eyes and a head of wild platinum curls, and a smile too big and too radiant. It is an image that spurs him onward. He will be a better leader to his clan. A better example to his brothers. Even if it begins with confessing his failures.

“I have been meeting someone, Sensei.” He speaks softly, but not quietly. They all need to hear this.

Sensei stares. “A human.” He says after a heavy pause. His tone is unreadable, as is the expression across his face.

“Celine,” he corrects, respectfully, “Her name is Celine West.” Another pause, debating whether this will help or hurt his cause, and then he slowly adds, “She’s a friend of April’s.”

Sensei’s brow line lifts, eyes widen in surprise. He doesn’t look angry (yet), so perhaps it wasn’t a terrible idea to throw that detail in the mix.

“Our April?” Sensei inquires, leaning forward, “How do they know each other?”

“I don’t know.” He admits, “But they seem quite close. They might be childhood friends…or something like that.”

 _Something like that_ is the more probable situation. He knows it, and from the look in his father’s eyes, Sensei knows it too. April has told them many times before she didn’t have friends as a child, save them. It’s more likely she and Celine met long after. The exact details will have to be discovered later, though, because amber eyes are examining him again. This interrogation isn’t over yet. _Unfortunately._

“And you met this girl through April, did you?”

 _Damn it._ He should have seen that coming. “…No.” he says, a little quieter now, “I…” how does he phrase this delicately? “I sought her out. On my own.”

At least it’s the truth, without confessing the way he essentially stalked her—albeit with more innocent intentions, but there’s only one appropriate term for following someone, watching them from a distance, and, let him not forget, sneaking onto windows ledges and watching through the window, like a peeping tom—before it become a mutually-interested relationship. He’s still not sure why Celine doesn’t give him grief about that. It would be more than warranted.

Sensei sighs heavily. He’s not sure if it’s from frustration, disappointment, or exasperation. Maybe all of the above. “Leonardo,” he finally says, “why? Why would you do this, and for _twelve months_? Deceit is one sin; one matter to deal with. But to willingly expose yourself to a human? You know the dangers. The risks. You could have put your brothers in harm’s way, let alone your—”

“I love her.”

There, it’s finally out, in the open, for everyone to hear. He’s done the unthinkable and fallen for a human. For this family, it’s probably one of, if not _the_ ultimate taboo. Humans exist in their own world, unaware of the outcasts sharing it from beneath the streets. They are never to merge into that world, because they will never be accepted.

But that isn’t true. Not anymore. Because he’s looked into the eyes of a human woman and seen love. Love for him, just as he is. All that he is. And he loves her. So much. Too much, yes. Too much love, fell into love with her too fast and too hard. But it’s all for her.

He shifts, sits upright, and meets Sensei’s astonished expression with even and steady eyes. “I love her, Father.” he repeats calmly, “She is different. She was raised to have a good heart, a gentle and compassionate spirit for all she sees and everyone she meets.”

A pause, and then, “I do not believe it is by coincidence that she and April became friends. Their minds, their spirits, and their hearts are the same. They look at us the same, without fear or judgment or disgust. They don’t see us as the rest of the world does. The world may look at us and see freaks, monsters, genetic experiments gone awry. But that isn’t what they see. That isn’t what she sees.”

Without much further thought, he breaks the rules of polite distance between master and student to shift closer. Tone imploring, begging nearly, he whispers, “Meet her, Father. Let me bring her here, to meet all of you. I know you’ll understand. Just meet her. I beg of you. Please.”

Silence, once again. The tension in the air is heavy, thick, and very unpleasant. He can see his brothers shifting uncomfortably beneath it; he remains focused and calm, eyes never wavering from his father’s. Within amber depths, thoughts are forming, decisions being weighed carefully, and calculations being made. He wishes for the ability to transfer thoughts, images, and memories to his father’s mind. If Sensei could just see what he sees, if he could see Celine’s smile and hear her voice and feel the comfort she brings, surely he would understand. Surely he would allow this request.

But he cannot do this. All he can do is sit and wait.

Then, a slow exhale. Sensei’s eyes close, and then reopen. His gaze is steady and clear. “Very well, my son,” he speaks slowly, emphasizing each breath to demonstrate the sheer trust being put upon his eldest child, “You will bring her here. You will bring her to me and I will speak with her myself. And we will see whether or not your trust in her is warranted.”

***

“Just out on patrol, you said.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hiding out in an abandoned warehouse, you said.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not meeting with anyone, you said. Not fraternizing with humans, you said. Certainly not jeopardizing our entire existence by showing yourself and having a relationship with a—”

“For the third time, Donnie,” he says, turning mid-step and facing his younger brother with exasperation, “ _I’m sorry_.”

“Sorry? _Sorry_?” Donatello tosses his hands in their air, pacing frantically, “You lied to me! Your own brother. You _lied_ to me. To _my face_.”

He sighs, again. Apparently when Dominic mentioned forgiveness must be sought, he failed to mention how many times. “Donnie—”

“Not to mention the complete absurdity of it.” The younger carries on, ignoring him for favor of continued ranting, “I mean, good God, you showed yourself. To a human. Even a human who is April’s friend is still _a human_ , Leo! I mean, what if they’re not really friends, but more like acquaintances. Business acquaintances. Someone she met at work, like Vern, or—”

 _Alright, that’s it._ With one fluid movement, he clamps one hand over Donatello’s mouth to silence the uncontrolled expelling of words. “Donnie,” he says, slowly and deliberately to emphasize the need for silence on his brother’s part, “once again, I am sorry. I’m sorry I lied, especially to you. Secondly, Celine wouldn’t have anything to do with the media if you paid her all the money in the world, so the odds of April having met her at work are next to none. And,” he adds as a much-needed afterthought, “is it too much to ask that you not lump the woman _I_ love in with some guy you’re afraid is trying to take the woman _you_ love?”

Donatello just stares at him. Says nothing, but stares. Part of him wonders if he didn’t push it a little too far, but in the same breath, he doesn’t feel regret for what was said. His brother can try to deny it all he wants, may not even be fully aware of his own feelings, but they are there to be seen. And he isn’t blind. He knows his brothers, even if he doesn’t show it very well. He certainly hasn’t been so occupied with his own relationship that he can’t see what’s going been on with Donnie. Frankly, he’s convinced a blind man could see it.

“That…” Donatello struggles, briefly, for words; it’s amazing to see such behavior from his articulate and calculating brother, “That has nothing—” 

Abruptly, he changes course and steps back, adjusts his glasses, and his posture stiffens. He’s officially on the defensive. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Leo.”

Right on cue, the phone on Donatello’s belt thrums to life. He lifts his brow ridge, looks down at the phone, and then back at his brother—who, if he’s not mistaken, is slowly turning an interesting shade of dark green, “So…that’s not April calling, right?” something that might be a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, “And you’re not about to sprint out of here to answer her beckoning call?”

Dark green rapidly mixes with purple; he looks like an embarrassed eggplant. Donnie grabs the phone from his belt, looks down at the received text message, then back at him. He lifts one finger in warning. “We’re not done. We’re continuing this conversation. Eventually. When…when I’m not busy. With things. Things that may or may not involve April.”

He nods, still smirking, “I’ll look forward to it…” he watches Donnie make a beeline for the exit, then adds, “…little brother.”

“I heard that!”

***

From behind a glass pane, a bespectacled man looks down at the photo ID. _Sixty-five seconds, to be exact._ Then he looks up at the woman standing in front of him. _Twenty-five seconds._ And then back down to the ID, eyes scanning over the name printed on the glossed card. _Five seconds._ Finally, he looks at her for the second time. 

“So,” he says, with the tone of someone trying (and failing) to seem unimpressed, “you’re the Butcher’s little lamb.”

Celine keeps her face neutral, her tone pleasant, while her fingers curl a little tighter around her purse. The gesture is hidden below the countertop. “If that’s what you’re calling me these days, yes.” She answers politely.

“Hmm,” he says, looking her up and down a couple times; she tries to not squirm and betray just how uncomfortable he’s making her, “guess I thought you’d be taller.”

Her eyebrows arch. “Why?”

Now, he looks sheepish. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting an actual response to that little quip. “Uh…just because…I-I d-did.” He says, fumbling briefly with the computer keys, typing something in his system. After a short minute, he pulls out a visitor’s badge and slips it to her through a small opening in the glass. Then, seemingly just remembering, he adds, “I’ll be, uh, keeping this,” he holds up her ID, “until—”

“Until I leave, to ensure you get your badge back.” She finishes for him, lifting her eyebrows again, this time with a strained smile. “I’ve done this before.”

“Oh. Right.” He nods, now visibly flustered as he removes his glasses, briefly cleans them on his shirtfront, and clears his throat, “Well, then, uh, go ahead. Step to the door for me. Please.”

She nods, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she complies. The guard’s announcement has gathered quite a bit of unwanted attention; she can feel the weight of each gaze like a hot flame licking down her nerves. A few slow, deep breaths keep her calm. She’s not about to make a scene here, in all places. Once she gets to the visiting cell, everything will be fine.

Until then, she’ll just have to bite her tongue. Even if she tastes blood.

A very loud call emits from the desk, “Open on four!” followed by a jarring beep that signals the metal door sliding open. A uniformed guard, tall and broad, with a shaved head and stern eyes, is standing on the other side of the door, hands clasped formally behind his back as he turns to greet her.

“Miss West,” he says, tone stiff with professionalism but at least more polite than she’s accustomed to, “Please follow me.”


	2. Strange Blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April and Donnie have a chat; father and daughter finally come face-to-face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised there would be more April x Donnie in this one, and here's the first taste of it. More is coming, I promise. ^^

“What about some place downtown?” April asks, staring at the computer screen with one hand propping her chin up. “Central location; in the middle of citizen traffic, and there would be plenty of supporting businesses nearby.”

“Along with plenty of criminal activity.”

She blinks, pondering for a moment. “I would have a security system in the building.”

“And what about your transition from work to home? You’d be unprotected. Not to mention the commute.” Donatello adds, almost as an afterthought, but there’s something in his tone that makes her think he was actually thinking about it long before this exact minute. “You’re looking at a forty-five minute run, April—at least—with your current apartment location.”

“I can rent something downtown.” She counters, lifting her eyes over the laptop screen to his face. “Cut down the distance.”

“And pay the outrageous rent that downtown lofts cost?” his brow ridge rises. “Not to mention the additional costs of living on the upper levels, where you would be safest.”

She blinks again. He has a point. How and why he knows just how expensive the downtown apartments cost is another matter for another day. “What do you propose I do, Donnie?” she finally asks. “Put myself up in the suburbs?”

“It would be safer.”

“If I was interested in having the white picket fence and a house with a working husband and two-and-a-half kids.” She scoffs, leaning back in her chair with a small frown. “I’m looking for an _office_ , Don. A place to set up shop so people will not only have easy access to it, but also take my business seriously. I’m not going to get that in some cozy little covenant neighborhood upstate.”

He shifts, looking a bit sheepish but, as his next words confirm, still stubbornly clinging to his protest. “It would still be safer. The likelihood of coming in contact with any gangs or other likeminded criminals would be greatly reduced. Crime rates in the suburbs—”

“Donnie,” she cuts in, “every neighborhood has some level of criminal activity. All it takes is one person to turn a safe place into a local nightmare. More to the point,” she continues before he can object further, “it’s not like I won’t have some level of protection downtown. You guys are just a short distance away. Or are you trying to tell me you won’t answer my calls anymore?”

“I did _not_ say that!” he sits upright, abject horror written across his face at the mere suggestion, “You know we’d be there, April. _I_ ’d be there, no matter—”

The next word, even though she knows what it would have been—or at least, would like to think she knows—dies as his expression rapidly changes to mortification. And then it switches to awkward shifting on the couch. He grabs his glasses, adjusts them for a minute, then clears his throat and looks back at her. The impassioned protest from before has faded, and she misses it.

“The point remains,” he says after a short pause, “we can’t always be there. I mean, unless you want us constantly hovering over you…” he seems to ponder that for a minute, but quickly shakes his head and continues, “No. What I mean…what I mean is, between you going from your current home to a place downtown and back…I just don’t see how it would be…would be possible to…”

She shrugs, stands up, and sets her laptop aside while she stretches slowly. “Fair enough,” she nods, then casts a smile at him, “I guess I could always crash with you guys, right?”

The blush appears in record time. The extended pause that follows tells her, even without words, just how unopposed he really is to the idea. But he shakes his head again, and she sighs. She knew he wouldn’t be in complete support of it, but not for the sake of safety. This time, his concerns are for her comfort and, for want of a better phrase, sense of privacy. He may never say it out loud, but she can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t want her, a grown woman, living in the city’s underground, with four teenage brothers who are probably cramped together as it is.

She isn’t sure the idea doesn’t sound terrible to her. Actually, she might come to enjoy it. But if she pushes it, she’s confident he will protest until week’s end.

Nudging the thought away, she comes to stand before him, hands lightly resting on both hips, and meets his gaze. “Don,” she finally says, “in the last hour, you’ve effectively eliminated every corner of the state. What do you want me to do? You know how important this is to me.”

He shifts; she’s not sure if it’s their proximity or something else. “Of course I do.” He mumbles, looking down at his lap. “I’m just…concerned. I— _we_ want you safe, April.”

She nods. “But there’s no guarantee that any place will be completely safe.” She says softly, “There’s always a danger to living anywhere, regardless of what crime rates may or may not show. Downtown may have more associated dangers than the suburbs, but at least I know what I’d be dealing with. And I’d know you guys would be right there.”

“Most of us, anyway,” he replies, more to himself than her, but she doesn’t miss the edge to his voice and the slight frown along his mouth.

“What do you mean, _most of us_?” 

He shifts again; he probably didn’t expect for her to hear that part. “I…Leo.” He says after a pause, “I mean…I’m sure he’d be there, provided he wasn’t distracted.”

A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t be making any sense whatsoever. She would have probably assumed it was some sort of sibling spat and dismiss it—or, maybe, offered some soothing words and a gentle reminder that they’re still brothers and to try and work it out. But this conversation isn’t happening a few weeks ago; it’s happening now, and with a sudden rush of realization, she understands just what’s he’s talking about.

“He came clean, didn’t he?”

Her comment is, clearly, unexpected; Donatello’s neck shoots up so quick she briefly fears for a strain on his muscles, and his eyes widen to circles behind his glasses. He stares at her for a long, heavy moment; his gaze examines her for any hint of amusement or teasing, but she knows he won’t find any. He’ll find a hint of surprise, and a bit of relief for Leonardo’s sake. Keeping the secret from his family couldn’t have been easy, and she’s actually a little proud of him for finally confessing. But her pride is dampened by the look on Donnie’s face: bewilderment, then realization, and now…something that looks unpleasantly like betrayal.

“So…you knew?” he finally asks. There’s an accusing hint in his voice, and she frowns.

“Celine is one of my closest friends.” She answers, folding her arms loosely. “Of course I knew. She and I don’t keep secrets, at least not for long.”

“But…you kept it from us.”

What he means to say, she knows, is _me_. What he wants to say is, “You kept it from me.” That he refuses to just say it is both frustrating and disappointing, but she can’t dwell on it further. Not right now, anyway. 

“It wasn’t my secret to tell, Donnie, and you know it.” She tilts her head, considering the expression on his face for another moment, before adding, “And I don’t think you’re just upset about the secret. You’re upset because Leo’s been seeing a human.”

“He’s the one who always told us to stay away.” He blurts out, tone laced with some kind of desperation; like he’s trying to make her understand his point of view. “The one always echoing Sensei’s lectures about the dangers and the risks, and now he does this?!”

“You think he’s a hypocrite.” She says quietly.

“I think he’s playing with fire.” Donatello replies, “He says he’s in love with someone he’s known for barely than a year. What could he possibly know about her?”

Her frown deepens, and she leans back just a bit more, deepening the space between them. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit unfair, Donnie?” she asks, “You can’t expect me to believe all of you haven’t—at some point—been curious about humans, and especially human women. Leo’s no different.”

“Being curious is one thing.” He counters, crossing his arms tightly. “Sneaking out for twelve months, lying to your family about it…that’s something else. What if something had happened? We would have had no way of knowing to help him.”

Her eyebrows lift. “It sounds to me like you don’t trust your brother’s judgment.”

“I—”

“Actually,” she says, lifting one finger to cut over his next statement, “it sounds like you don’t trust _my_ judgment.”

His mouth hangs open, mid-word, and he simply stares at her. In different circumstances, she might find it endearing, possibly even adorable. As it is, right now, she’s feeling too much annoyance to harbor any other feelings. “I just told you Celine is one of my closest friends, second only to you.” She continues, “I also told you I knew about her and Leo. I didn’t tell you guys because it wasn’t my business to tell, and I think you could agree with me on that. What I’m hearing from you, Donatello,” he squirms, uncomfortably, at her sudden use of his full name, “is that you believe I wouldn’t have said something if I thought your brother was in any kind of danger.”

“No, that’s not—”

“No?” she interrupts, “Then what is it? Do you really think I wouldn’t have broken confidence if I thought Celine would hurt him? If I thought she couldn’t be trusted?” her frown deepens, “Never mind your brother, Don…how little do you trust _me_?”

Her words have the desired effect; he’s pressing back into the couch, looking deeply ashamed and like he wishes the cushions would swallow him up. After a few minutes of heavy silence, his expression changes again, and this time it looks like he’s about to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness. She breaks the tension with a slow sigh and shake of the head. She doesn’t want to make him upset. She just needs to help him understand.

She kneels in front of him, balancing with both hands against the couch, on either side of his legs. “Celine is the best person your brother could have found to love, Donnie.” She murmurs, “When you meet her, you’ll understand.”

He seems comfortable enough to meet her gaze, albeit still a bit flustered, and after another pause, he slowly answers, “Is she really that special?”

This time, she smiles and shifts her position; both hands slip into his, fingers curling around his. She feels him jump slightly at the unexpected sensation; they haven’t been this close in a while. The kiss she’d set on his cheek two days ago aside, they haven’t been like this since the night she cleaned his burn marks and puncture wounds. He still looks unsure of what this closeness means; she can almost see the questions and uncertainty racing through his mind. Part of her wants to reassure him, but she isn’t completely sure he’ll believe it.

“No,” she answers softly, stroking his palms with light touches, “it’s not that. She…she just has a different way about her. A different way of seeing the world.” She lifts her gaze to his, “She sees the best in people, and the best in the world. She’s quick to love and quick to forgive, no matter how badly she might be hurt in the process. She’s…”

For a moment, she struggles to find the best word. How can she describe her best friend, succinctly and without revealing too much of the past? A full explanation of how they met, the circumstances at the time included, would probably be the best demonstration, but that’s a story she isn’t ready to tell.

“She’s kind, Donnie.” She finally says, “Kind, and honest, and compassionate. And if there’s one thing she’s taught me, it’s to trust people. It’s not always easy, I know, especially when it’s someone you love and you feel they didn’t trust you in return. But sometimes, they’re just waiting for the moment when they need you the most, and then you’ll realize just how much they trust you.”

He looks down at their joined hands, solemn. But, she thinks, also contemplative of her words. After a few minutes, he looks back at her. “I’m his brother.” He whispers, “If…if he was falling in love…why didn’t he just tell me? This is supposed to be something happy. Something you _want_ to share.” Another pause, and then, “Am I really…that hard to talk to?”

There’s a distinct tinge of sadness in his voice, and in it she hears the true extent of how isolated he feels. Even in his own family, a group of outcasts and exiles, he is alone and exists on his own island. She shares the island with him sometimes, and she knows he is overwhelmingly grateful for it because he thinks it’s all he’ll ever have.

But he shouldn’t be alone when she isn’t there. It’s wrong. He has his brothers, and he needs them. They rely on him for so much, and sometimes, most times, she thinks he isn’t repaid in kind.

“Donnie,” she says, “you need to tell him. You need to tell Leo how you feel. It’s going to be hard, because it means confessing all the feelings you’ve stored up inside, but let it out. It hurts for a little bit, and then all that’s left is relief.”

He looks at her, questioning and a little skeptical, but she keeps her smile in place. It hides just how much personal knowledge she has on the matter; disguises just how well she knows the truth of her own words. But her smile always reassures him, and as she watches his expression soften and a look of resolve come over his face, she knows it does so yet again.

***

“I wish you’d have told me you were coming.” Dominic says, trying to find a comfortable position in the stiff plastic chair. “I’d have worn my good suit.”

Celine’s eyebrows lift in an expression of gentle amusement. “Complete with your favorite bow tie?”

“Only the best for you.”

She smiles, casting a look over him. He looks healthy, at least, though he’s a bit thinner than she remembers. Thinner and older. The lines around his eyes and mouth are more pronounced, and the skin on his face looks tighter. But his eyes have lost none of their light, and the smile on his face is the same as always. It’s a small relief, but it’s enough.

He leans forward, returning her gaze through the glass panel. For a longer moment, he studies her, and then releases a slow, murmuring sigh. “You’re looking more like her every day.”

Her throat tightens slightly around tears; she is obliged to blink a few times, forcing them back before they can form in her eyes. It’s silly, to be so emotional about these things, but it’s been so long…can she really be blamed? After all, it’s been over five years—no, almost six years—since her father told her how much she looks like her mother. A mother she tries every day to remember as the smiling, blue-eyed beauty holding her close, spinning her around the living room and beaming over a new painting—before a gentle lecture on cleaning up after making a mess—and staying up late on weekends to watch movies. It’s a much-preferred host of memories in comparison to the woman lying on a hospital bed, her beautiful hair shaved away and her face swollen beneath the bandages, with a bullet in her head and no hope of revival.

Her father seems to read her thoughts; they’re probably written all over her face. “She’d be proud of you, Snowflake.”

The old nickname makes her smile, but it also inspires fresh tears. She isn’t quick enough to blink them away this time; she sees his hand twitch, as though about to reach out for her, but then remembering the panel between them, and his hand falls still once again. She wishes the panel wasn’t here; it’s been a long, long time since she felt his touch.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat quietly, “I asked Detective Marx to give you a message. Did the old goat deliver?”

“Dad,” she chastises gently, even though most of her greatly agrees with his comment, “he’s difficult to get along with and even harder to like, but we both know he’s just doing his job.”

“He was an insufferable little brat when he first joined the force,” Dominic continues with a dismissive gesture, “and he’s matured into an egotistical, pig-headed, tobacco-chewing goat who’d lock up a little old lady if it meant he got his quota for the month.” He shifts again, scowling slightly. “He was the last person I wanted coming to your door for this mess.”

“He was the investigating detective on your case.” She reminds gently, trying to bit back a small smile, “You had to have known he’d take it upon himself to track you down.”

He smirks, briefly, “Pity I didn’t have a camera on me earlier. I’d have loved to send you the picture of his face when I walked in the station.”

She smiles, also briefly, before a more solemn expression takes its place. Shifting her hands on the small counter, twisting her fingers together slowly, she releases a careful breath and meets his eye. “Dad,” she says, “we don’t have much time.”

He considers her; she can tell the look on her face is betraying inner thoughts. She had hoped she would be a better actress, or at least able to keep it together longer than five minutes into their conversation. But, then again, they don’t have much time.

“No, we don’t.” he nods slowly, leaning forward again, this time with hands folded in his lap. “And before they ship me back, I owe you some answers.”

“Yes, you do.”

Another nod, then a heavy sigh, “I really didn’t mean for you to get dragged into this.” He says at length, “I suppose I should have known you would be though. Guess I didn’t learn anything from last time, did I?”

She doesn’t answer. “It sounds stupid, I know,” he continues, “but all I wanted was to see you. Just a little glimpse.”

“You told me in the letters you didn’t want me to come and visit.” She protests softly, struggling now to meet his gaze without tears hindering her view, “I would have come, but you said you didn’t want me there. I…I assumed that meant…”

“That I didn’t want to see you? Don’t be ridiculous.” He scoffs, but gently, “I didn’t want you anywhere near the scum that festers in there. And I don’t trust the guards in that place to be any better.” A pause, “I’ve wanted to see you since the day I was locked up, sweet girl. But I also wanted you as far away from that garbage as possible.”

She ponders in silence for a few seconds, then sighs. “Why now? You practically begged to be thrown on death row, and then you escape? And with three other convicts?”

He rolls his eyes, looking quite displeased with himself. “An unfortunate partnership that, as I’m sure Marx told you, was quickly terminated. I knew the rat pack was planning an escape, and I jumped on board. It was the only chance I knew I’d have to see you.”

“I repeat,” she said, “why now?”

Another silent moment passes before he shrugs, then releases a low, heavy exhale. “I missed Christmas. I’ve missed the last five Christmases. And Thanksgiving. And Fourth of July. I’ve missed everything.” He looks back up; his eyes are starting to redden, and she can see the tears forming. “I didn’t want to miss your birthday. Might be the last birthday I can see you.”

She blinks, staring at him for a long moment with uncertainty. “But…you didn’t even try to see me…”

He scowls. “Marx was quicker than I’d expected. He got to you before I could. Once I saw him strolling up to your place, I knew he’d be tailing you and if he saw you talking with anyone suspicious…” another heavy sigh, “I really could have planned this out a lot better.”

A small smile lifts her mouth. “Just a little bit.”

“Losing my touch, it seems.” He matches her smile, then lifts his hands onto the counter. They’re folded neatly, crisply, and his expression changes to a serious, but comforting, gaze. She knows this look. She’s seen it before, many times.

“Unfortunately,” he continues, “I don’t have much in the way of gifts. But I do have one thing I can give.”

“What’s that?”

He leans closer; she mirrors the movement, silently begrudging the panel separating them. What she wouldn’t pay, sacrifice, or surrender, just to give him one last hug…?

“My blessing.” He murmurs tenderly, the warmth in his eyes matching his tone, “I don’t know that I ever imagined you would find a match, not in this world, but you always had a knack for proving me wrong.” She smiles. “You’ve found your match, Snowflake, and like I said…he’s a keeper. Don’t let him get away.”

She smiles, reaching up to set a hand flat against the glass. He matches it, and for a short moment, the last moment before this will be over and she’ll have to watch him be taken away again, she remembers the feel of his roughed, calloused palm. It is a hand that held her when she was crying, provided the necessary punishment when she’d done wrong, and comforted her when she’d thought the world had ended.

“I don’t plan on it.”


	3. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two brothers have a long-overdue bonding moment; Celine finally meets the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of Apritello ahead, fellow fans! :) Please enjoy!

“Leo,”

He looks up from the book lying across his lap, surprised to see his brother leaning against the doorway. Donnie looks somewhat nervous, shifting against the frame with both hands rubbing together. He recognizes the hand motions; his brother has done that since he was much younger, and always when he was uncomfortable or trying to tell him something. A few times, it was something he didn’t necessarily want to hear.

“Hey, Don,” he says after a moment, “what’s up?”

Donnie swallows and shifts again. “I…can we…can we talk?”

He considers him for another minute. The last time they played out this scene, Donnie was trying to tell him he’d “accidentally” and “without any cruel or otherwise improper intentions” blown out the city’s power grid. After this morning’s conversation, he’s not quite sure what to make of this sudden change. But, then again, he shouldn’t refuse a chance to mend things between his brother. He’d spent the rest of the morning, following Don’s departure, enduring lectures from the other siblings; having a civilized conversation with one of them isn’t a gift he should question or throw away.

He shifts on the bed, making room, and puts the book aside. Donnie takes the silent invitation and slowly lowers himself down on the mattress beside him. Both hands rest on his thighs, and he rocks back and forth for a couple seconds before releasing a measured breath and looking up at the ceiling.

“Leo,” Donnie slowly says, lowering his eyes from the ceiling to stare straight ahead, “I…” he pauses, clears his throat, and continues, “I’m your brother. The second oldest. The one closest to you in age. When we were younger, we used to exist in our own little world together, before our training began and Sensei put you in charge of us. We used to…we used to just be brothers.”

He feels more than a twinge of guilt; it’s like a bullet wound, right through the heart. It’s true that he has different responsibilities now than as a child, and more often than not they feel like a heavy burden on his mind and spirit. Sometimes he misses the days when the four of them were just brothers, especially his relationship with Donatello. Sometimes he misses the nights spent in each other’s rooms, listening to his brother talk about stars and the opportunities for enhanced technology in their lair and how, after extensive examination, he was confident beyond a doubt that he was _in fact_ older than Raphael, regardless of what the latter might insist. Back then, they had been kids, and it had been easy to be brothers. Now, he is the appointed leader, and very often he doesn’t distinguish between _leader_ and _brother_. Very often, he makes the two titles synonymous, even though they’re not.

He knows he should, because they are two different roles. And, clearly, his siblings are suffering from it more than he originally thought.

“Donnie, I—”

“Please,” his brother holds up a hand, “please, Leo, just let me talk.”

He doesn’t protest. He falls silent and leans forward, tilting his head to get a better view of his brother’s face. Trepidation, uncertainty, but resolve; whatever needs to be said, it must be said. He won’t stop him anymore. He swore he’d be a better example. _A better brother._

Donnie slowly exhales, then continues, “I said some things earlier I shouldn’t have said. I got angry with you when I…I should have been grateful that you finally decided to tell us the truth. I let my emotions get the better of me, and for that, I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

He wants to speak, to say it doesn’t matter. His brother’s anger was warranted and he shouldn’t have to apologize for it. But he forces himself to stay silent. Donnie sighs again, shakes his head slowly and staring at the wall. “When your brother falls in love,” he says slowly, “it’s supposed to be a happy thing. Something you want to share.”

Unexpectedly, the younger laughs. A quiet, almost empty sound that doesn’t sound like his normal laughter, and it doesn’t sound right, not coming from him. But then, he shakes his head again and continues. “I know I’m not the easiest person to talk to. Half the time, I’m not speaking English and the other half, I’m going off on fifteen different tangents that make your head spin. I know it’s true, and I know it doesn’t make me much of a great conversation partner. But…” 

Donnie stops, looks at him, and this time holds his gaze. “Talk to me, Leo. If you really love her, and she makes you happy…tell me. Share it with me. I want…I want to be the one you can talk to, brother. I want—”

No more words follow, because he’s pulled Donnie into a tight embrace, only slightly awkward with their current positions on the bed, but the strange angle does nothing to diminish the honesty of the gesture. He feels his younger sibling freeze, for a moment unsure of what to do or think, and his forehead slowly comes to rest on his shoulder. He isn’t wearing his electrical pack or goggles, which is the only reason no bruising or discomfort arise from the movement. Though, he isn’t sure he would have minded.

He pulls back and sets both hands on Donatello’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, with a small smile in place, “Thank you, brother.”

“Will you?” Donnie asks, trying for a smile but still with uncertainty in his expression, “Will you talk to me, Leo? I want to have that between us again…like before.”

He forces himself to not gasp, to not release any sound that would betray the sudden rush of joyful emotion that hits him and hits hard. _Yes. Yes, I promise. We’ll talk. Day and night, we’ll talk. Every hour and every day, if we can. We’ll never sleep again, with all the talking we can do. We never slept as kids, right? Why should things be different now?_

He pretends to think, to consider the proposal, and then fixes his brother with a wider smile. “Every day that there is something to talk about.” He declares, “But with one condition.”

His brother’s brown eyes widen, then narrow with curiosity. “What is it?”

His smile broadens even more. “You,” he points a finger at Donnie’s chest, “have to return the favor.”

“…what?”

“You heard me.” He continues. “And don’t play dumb with me again. Or tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A softer blush creeps along his sibling’s cheeks, though not nearly as red as earlier. It’s a small improvement, but he’ll take it. Mutely, Donatello nods, not quite making eye contact with him, and he knows this will need more encouragement. But not here, where there are prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.

On the wings of this impulsive thought, he grabs Donnie’s hand and tugs him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Where?”

He keeps tugging him to the door, down the hall, and towards the exit before anyone can stop them and ask questions. “We’re going out.” He says, as though it’s the best explanation in the world. It’s not, and the confused look on his brother’s face says as much.

“Where?”

He just keeps pulling him along, trying to not smile too much, lest it make his brother overly concerned. “You’ll see.”

***

The apartment is dark; Celine isn’t back yet. He’s not surprised. She would want to spend as much time with her father as possible before they are separated again. He is eager to hear about their conversation, to see her eyes light up even for a few moments as she forgets the somber circumstances, and then hold her while she cries and mourns her loss. But that will have to wait, unfortunately, because tonight must be the night.

But he’ll worry about those details later. For now, he and Donatello sit on the cool concrete and stare up at the dark heavens. He remembers happening upon his brother once, when they were much younger and much smaller, with a large book across his lap that was almost as big as he had been. A book about the stars, and their individual placement in the skies, and the different stories behind their origins and patterns— _constellations_ , he remembers; they are called constellations. He remembers how they’d sat together, speaking in hushed tones and making up stories about how they might be remembered in the stars one day, and how both wished for a glimpse of the skies above their underground home.

Strange, how they’re finally here. Perhaps not quite how it had been imagined, but nevertheless they are here.

“It scares me.”

He blinks and looks to his right, where Donatello is staring up at the skies. His expression is difficult to see in the shadows—there is no real source of light in this place—but the tone of his voice is enough to paint a picture of what his face must look like. 

For a minute, he considers the words. “It doesn’t have to, Donnie.” He says softly, “Love is supposed to make you happy, remember?”

“I don’t know if it’s love.” His brother’s voice is even softer, almost a broken whisper around his shuddering exhale. “I don’t know what it is. What I feel. I don’t understand any of it.”

A pause follows, and then Donnie sighs again; he hears the soft sound of his brother’s head meeting the stone ledge. “But…what I feel…I feel a lot of. Maybe too much.” Another pause. “It confuses me, Leo. And it scares me. I don’t understand it. I don’t…I don’t understand her.”

He nods to himself with a quiet hum. “Have you ever considered you might be overthinking it?”

“Overthinking is what I do best.”

He can’t contain a short chuckle at the response; it’s true, in more ways than one. Donnie overthinks and obsesses, pouring over and pondering what others see as minute and insignificant details. And yet the end result is something effective and brilliant and keeps them thriving in one way or another. For that reason alone, he can’t ever seem to scold his brother’s eccentricities. 

And yet…this isn’t tinkering with a new machine or upgrading their security system. This is different.

“What…” Donnie’s voice is softer now, almost shy, “What’s it like?”

“What?”

Now he’s sure of the shyness, and if he were able to see his brother’s face, he’s sure there would be a blush very visible on his cheeks again. “What’s it like…to hold her? To hold and be held? To touch her and know she’s not afraid or…or disgusted? To know she just wants you, to be close to you, to have you close to her. What does it feel like?”

The words come out before he can filter them, not that he would have, given the chance. “There isn’t a word for it. It’s…it’s like I’m flying, but I’m back on the ground and in her arms, and then her voice is in my ear and it feels like I’m flying again, because she sounds like…like an angel would sound.” He pauses. “It…I don’t know if you can define or describe it, Donnie. All I can say is…it feels right. It just feels right.”

Silence falls between them again, for a longer moment this time, and he doesn’t break it. He wants to know what his brother has to say, without any early prompting or interruptions of his thoughts. And so he waits it out, for about fifteen minutes, give or take. And then…

“She came to me first.” Donatello is barely whispering now, and he wonders if it’s from anxiety, or fear, or something in between. “I…I thought it was just an impulsive action, or maybe because she knew it was because I’d know how to get us out of there, out of those tanks and out of that lab. I’ve tried to tell myself it was that way, for that reason. She came to me first because of rational thought and simple logical reasoning.”

“But…?”

“But every time I start thinking about that day, about what I thought could be my last hour on Earth, and every time I get myself almost convinced it was just luck of the draw…” his brother swallows, then gives a shuddering exhale, “I hear her voice. I hear the way she called out my name and kept calling until I looked at her.” Another exhale. “Like she was calling me back. Like she was…like she was telling me to hold on and not die. I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t get _her_ out of my head.”

Silence, and then, “Am I losing my mind, Leo?”

He shrugs. “If you are, then I’ve definitely lost mine. So you’re in good company.”

A short laugh follows his quip; it makes him feel better to hear the sound. It’s a real laugh this time, not the empty one from earlier. “Good to know. I’d hate to suffer insanity alone. Misery does love company, after all.”

He smiles, more to himself than anything. And then, from below, he hears the sound of a door opening, and the quiet click of a light switch being flicked. His heart races, without permission, of its own accord, and he sits upright. Donatello seems to sense the movement, or perhaps heard him shift on the concrete. “What is it?”

He turns, finds his brother’s hand, and pulls him up. “The reason I brought you here.” He says, and with that carefully hoists himself over the ledge and makes a quick downward trek to the window below. Donnie follows, doesn’t ask any more questions, but he can feel the questioning stare on his back.

Ignoring it, for now, he slips a hand to the window and finds it cracked, just enough for him to get leverage and open it all the way. He gracefully enters, savoring the basking warmth of this place, and gestures for Donatello to follow. His brother does, adjusting his glasses, and looks even more confused and uneasy to be in a strange place.

Setting a reassuring hand to his brother’s shoulder, he guides him around the corner to the small kitchen area. “Donnie,” he says, gesturing forward, “This is Celine.”

***

“So,” Celine says, lifting her eyebrows in a delicate expression, “you’re Donatello.”

He looks about what she could have expected: very tall and, in comparison, of a leaner build, with his bo staff strapped to his back. He isn’t wearing the electrical pack and associated equipment of which she’s heard, but then again, she can’t imagine he would need it, not for a simple outing with his older brother. And this way, she can get a better look at him. The overly-large glasses, with tape wrapped around the middle, suit him rather well, and do nothing to hide the large brown eyes currently looking at her with a mixture of shyness and small intrigue.

Leo’s descriptions have given her an idea of his appearance. April’s, on the other hand, are filled to the brim— _overflowing, actually_ , she thinks with a hidden smile—with descriptions of his personality, of his gentle demeanor and brilliant brain, of his curious mind and desire to understand the nature of all things, of his shy smiles and adoring glances when he’d thought April hadn’t noticed them.

He is a world apart from the last one, she decides, and all the better. This is someone who can appreciate her friend’s keen mind and sharp wit, a gentle companion to her fiery spirit, but still a trained warrior who will strike hard in her defense and bring down enemies in her name.

The similarities between he and his brother are quite striking, she decides. Physically, other than the obvious, they share little; but from what she has heard of Donatello and what she knows of Leonardo, she can see the parallels. She is grateful that her lover brought him to meet her, a separate introduction from the rest of the family; she isn’t sure she could have appreciated him as much under different circumstances.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss West.” He mumbles, shifting shyly in the chair. The three of them sit at her kitchen table, he across from her and Leo between them. The latter’s hand is holding hers atop the table, and she’s seen Donatello’s eyes dart from her face to their embraced hands several times. Six, to be exact.

“Please, call me Celine.” She answers. Leo squeezes her hand, an amused quirk to his smile.

“You give _him_ the polite version, and _I_ get a taste of your sharp tongue?”

“You’re a big boy.” She returns smoothly and with a wink. “You handled it quite well. I’d rather not put your brother off with my _sharp tongue_ less than twenty minutes after we’ve first met.”

The humor seems to lessen the tension between them; Donatello relaxes a bit and smiles slightly. “Celine,” he corrects himself, inclining his head politely, “It is a pleasure. Leo speaks very highly of you.”

“As he does you.” She nods in return. Then she casts a look at her lover with a knowing smile. “But I have a feeling this visit isn’t just for private introductions, Leo.”

He doesn’t look surprised, and nor should he. They know each other too well at this point. “Sensei wants to meet you.” He says, holding her hand more securely. “He wants me to bring you home. Tonight.”

She rolls her eyes, still smiling playfully. “You and your terrible planning, my love.” She chides gently. “Don’t you know women need at least twenty-four hours notice before being considered presentable?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage nonetheless.” He smirks slightly, and she leans forward to brush a kiss over his lower lip.

“I’ll meet you behind the building in fifteen minutes.” She murmurs, standing and setting their empty tea cups in the sink. She’ll wash them later, when she doesn’t have more important matters to deal with.

He nods and makes for the window. She turns in time to see Donatello about to follow him, and she clears her throat. He pauses mid-step and looks at her with some confusion. 

She leans back against the counter, smiling at him with a gentle tilt to the head. “Do you want to know how I knew you, Donatello?”

He blinks. “My brother told you about me. About all of us.”

Her smile grows. “No. I knew about _you_ before I even met Leo.”

Now he looks terribly confused. She can’t help but think he wears it rather well, and is quite adorable for it. “How?”

She pushes off the counter and takes a few light steps toward him. “April,” she answers, “You’re all she talks about.”

He couldn’t have looked more stunned than if she’d slapped him right across the face. His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. No words comes out, just a couple undefined sounds. The next time he closes and opens his mouth, he manages to force out a weak, “W…what?”

She takes a few more steps forward. “April talks about you all the time, Donatello. _All the time_.” Her smile grows even more. “By the third week, I was almost convinced you two were getting married, as much as she talks about you.”

He flushes an impressive shade of mauve. “I—I…that is…”

“The question I’ve always had on my mind,” she gently interrupts, “is how you could keep yourself at a distance with her? How, when it’s so obvious—at least to me—that she only wants to be closer to you?”

He stares at her, mute, but his face is definitely doing all the speaking for him. She winks at him, still smiling, and makes for her bedroom. A couple minutes later, she hears Leo return, asking if his brother is alright. A pause follows, and then Donatello says he’ll catch up later. That there’s something he needs to do.

She smiles to herself, changes clothes, and meets Leo twelve minutes later. He offers his brother’s excuses; she nods, as though their earlier exchange had never been heard, and follows him beneath the city. Along the way, they talk about her visit to the jail, laugh when she tells him how her father offered his blessing to them, and she comforts him when he confesses his anxiety over how this meeting will go. 

He leads her to his father’s room, and she kisses him, not too long but not too short, and promises to see him soon. He holds her hands a moment longer, then opens the door and closes it quietly behind her.

She is a little surprised, but at the same time relieved, as she examines the figure seated a short distance away. He is smaller than she imagined, dwarfed in comparison to his sons, but there is no mistaking the power and authority in his eyes. He is a true Sensei, master of his art, and more importantly, a father to his children. She sees the protective gleam in his eyes as he examines her for a silent moment.

He gestures to the unoccupied mat, never once looking away from her. She sits across from him, hands delicately in her lap, and holds his gaze, respectfully, but intently, just as she was taught.

“Miss Celine West,” he finally says, bowing his head and gesturing with his hands, “welcome to our home.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” She answers politely, watching as he collects a pot and pours them two cups of tea.

He nudges hers forward, accepts her murmured thanks with another nod, and then fixes her with that burning gaze again. “Now then,” he continues, “I would hear the story of how you met my son. From the beginning, if you please.”

***

He was able to get in following his brother’s example: scale the roof, slip down the side to the window ledge, and negotiate the window open for a silent, easy entry. Living in darkness and shadows served him well in navigating the apartment to the bedroom without stubbing his toe or tripping over any loose items on the floor—not that there were any; she keeps her home pristine, a far cry from his tendency to live in a mess of pulled wires, disassembled circuit boards, and various plugs and loose chips cannibalized from different machines and computer drives—and found his way to the open bedroom doorway.

Now, he stands in the threshold, leaning heavily against the frame, trying to remember how to breathe.

It’s like some scene out of a movie, or perhaps an elaborate illustration from a child’s fairytale book. The moonlight spills in through open curtains, tracing over the sheets and blanket, highlighting her arms and face in delicate caresses. He feels an absurd surge of envy towards the moon; he would give almost anything to be the one tracing paths across her skin, paying homage to the arms and neck left bare with the sleeveless shirt she’s wearing. Her dark hair is spilled like an ink stain across her pillow, and he can almost imagine falling headfirst into that pool and never coming out. He can also imagine reaching out and touching those waves, learning their texture and memorizing it forever.

At some point, he realizes he’s moved closer to the bed. Now there is less than a foot separating him from the mattress, and three feet separating him from her sleeping form. He also realizes how badly he’s shaking.

Without warning, even though he’s certain he hasn’t made a sound, her eyes open. Twin pools of sapphire find him at the foot of her bed, and for one breathtaking moment they burn in the moonlight. Like the arctic glaciers beneath the sun, where ice meets crystal blue waters, frozen water meets its liquid counterpart, and there is an inexplicable, but very real gleam that exists in that thin sliver of space.

She doesn’t sit up, but she shifts slightly onto her side. He takes the cue and crosses over to the bed. After a moment, he slowly lowers down to her mattress, hands tight on his thighs as he tries to remember how to breathe and not hyperventilate. This feels like an intimate moment to be shared between her and someone else. Someone…someone more than he is. Someone more human.

“Hey,” she murmurs, slipping a hand beneath her cheek. He wishes that was his hand. “What’s wrong?”

His anxiety must be showing; taking a few careful breaths, he shifts and exhales slowly. “I…I want to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For earlier.” He says, swallowing quietly; the calming breaths aren’t helping, not with her so very close and with her warmth radiating from beneath the bedcovers into his legs. “I’m sorry, April. Truly, I’m sorry. I acted as though I don’t trust you, and I hurt you as a result. Please believe that was never my intention. I…I was just frustrated with Leo and let myself get carried away.”

She studies him for a minute, but says nothing. He takes this as permission to continue. “I…I’m also afraid I upset you with your office search. I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to push you one way or another. I just…” _Say it; don’t beat around the bush, just say it_ , “I want you safe, April. I know the risks of living in the city and I don’t want you to face them. But you’re right; every place has its risks and dangers, and living in some upscale neighborhood isn’t what you want. And it’s not good for your business.”

He releases a slow breath; he hasn’t actually breathed properly since starting this string of excuses. “I know what this means to you. It makes you happy, and I want you to be happy. Almost more than…than I want you safe.”

Again, she stays silent, and he briefly fears that, once again, his endless blabbering has made things worse. Then she slowly sits up, closing the distance between them as her body shifts from beneath the covers and draws closer. He forces himself to keep attention on her face, not the way her shorts reveal the long, slim lines and delicate curves of her bare legs or the way her hair spilled down her back with the movement and exposed more of her neck and shoulders.

She draws her legs up beside her, sitting with one hand as support on the mattress. “You want to keep me safe, Donnie?”

Her voice is so soft, a gentle whisper when he was half-expecting harsh scolding for his complete lack of tact earlier. He savors the sound for a moment, almost missing the question in his distracted state of mind. Then her words catch up, and his mind scatters.

_Yes. Good God, yes. Whatever it takes, no matter the cost. It would kill me if you were hurt. I’d never forgive myself if it was because I misled you, or wasn’t there to protect you. I just…I don’t know if I can always be there. I want to be. I want to be there day and night, always at your side, but…_

“Yes,” he manages to whisper. _With my life_ , wants to follow, but he swallows the words back before they escape and he proceeds to ruin this moment.

She looks at him a moment longer. Then, without warning, her arms slip around his shoulders. One hand rests on his shell; the other curls gently around the back of his neck. Her head comes to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder, right where his pulse beats, and he’s certain she can hear— _or feel_ —the way his heart is hammering violently against his ribcage. Her curls crumple against his skin, beneath his jaw, and it’s like falling face-first into silk. She smells familiar, like home, with a hint of evergreen pine and something else. Something more natural and completely unique to her. He feels like he has experienced this scent before, sometime before this moment, and he wonders if he remembers it from the time in the lab.

She turns her head to whisper in his ear, voice soft and breath warm against his skin. “Then keep me close.”

If his mind was scattered before, it is now lost to the vague, unknown reaches of the universe. But, he would later decide, it’s better this way. Without rational thought intact, he is left to follow the urgings of pure emotion, without uncertainty to interfere, even if only for one moment.

And it is one glorious, perfect moment. A moment when he lets one hand slip into her hair and tangle within dark waves of silk and holds her head to his shoulder, and the other hand drifts down to wrap a shivering arm around her shoulders and tuck her close. Close to his body, to his heart, while his cheek rests delicately on her temple.

She is so warm, so soft, and so very perfect. The impossible and yet tangible proof of humanity’s ability to form from simple cells, all of which carry their own imperfections, and become something beautiful. Too beautiful. Unbearably, overwhelmingly beautiful. Something from a dream and fantasy that was never meant to be a living, breathing, thinking and feeling being. And yet she is exactly that: a keen mind, a beautiful face, a determined will and unbreakable spirit.

And she is in his arms, and holding him in hers. He is almost convinced it was a dream. That he hit his head on the way here and is lying in an alley somewhere, suffering the surprisingly wonderful and deliriously pleasant effects of a severe concussion.

“I’d do anything for you, April.” He whispers, not trusting his voice above hushed tones, “Anything, if it meant you’d be safe. Anything at all.”

He thinks, perhaps, she’s fallen back asleep; her body has gone almost limp against him, and her breathing is even and soft. But then he feels the curve of her smile against his shoulder, and her voice speaks in equally quiet tones. “Keep me close, Don. Just keep me close.”

As he slowly comes to rest atop her bed, never once releasing her from the embrace, terrified and thrilled when she does the same and curls against his body, he knows he can do nothing else. Whatever she asks of him, it will be done. The impossible will be accomplished if it is her wish. The improbable becomes child’s play if she seeks it. If she wants him to keep her safe by keeping her close, he knows he will do it and nothing will keep him from her side, save her command.


	4. A New Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celine's introduction to the family is made complete; Donatello has a surprise for April.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited intro to the family, and a nice big helping of Apritello to wrap this one up. Next installment will be "The Runaway", in which April continues to expand on her new venture, starting with a puzzling case of a teen runaway that will bring her face-to-face with someone unexpected.

Morning found her alone, with only the mussed sheets at her side and the warm imprint of his body left as a reminder. She was a little disappointed; she would have liked to awaken with him beside her. But, perhaps, this was for the better. At least for now. 

She hadn’t actually woken up until about half past noon, the longest sleep-in she can ever remember experiencing since summer breaks in middle school, before high school seasonal jobs and college life that hadn’t allowed for anything but studying, working, and studying. Some part of her had felt a little embarrassed, sleeping well past a respectable hour when she certainly had other things to be doing.

_Though_ , she smiles to herself, _I wasn’t doing much sleeping_. Much of the night was spent with her senses devoted to hearing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the low sound of his breathing, the texture of his skin against hers, the way his fingers curled within her hair…

Not quite the way she’d planned on spending her night, but she’s not about to complain. _Not at all._

Now, approximately ten minutes before the five o’clock evening hour, she’s sitting in front of her computer, staring vacantly at the different building options she’s pulled up for review. None of them are really top-contenders; one is too far out of the city limits, two are only for rent when she’d rather make a purchase and claim the property as her own, and three are available to be bought but have an astronomical price tag attached.

She makes a grumbling comment to herself and leans back heavily in the chair. Perhaps she’s setting her expectations too high, but her father always taught her to _aim high, never settle_. Surely there’s a place that qualifies, meets her needs, and can be something she’ll call her own. A place that gets her away from the cramped apartment uptown, to start a new phase of her life, and be closer to her family. Is that really so much to ask?

From beside the laptop, her cell phone buzzes to life. She retrieves it, taps the DELETE button on the computer to clear her screen, and checks the caller ID. The name printed across her screen raises both eyebrows in surprise.

“Don?” she answers, “Is everything alright?”

“ _Yes. Everything is…everything is fine. Better than fine, actually._ ” He sounds almost breathless, as though barely containing sheer excitement. The last time he was this way, it was after the new security system—their “baby”—had taken its first electronic breaths and fed data back to his hard drive at a fantastic rate. “ _Um…can you meet me tonight? Around seven?_ ”

“Sure…” she says, eyebrows raising even higher, this time from curiosity, “Where am I meeting you?”

“ _I’ll text you the address._ ” He says, and she hears someone call for him in the background—Raphael, by the sound of it. “ _Coming!_ ” he answers, then, “ _I have to go. But please, meet me. I’ll text you. See you tonight!_ ”

The call ends with a dial tone, and she stares down at the phone for a minute like she doesn’t know what it is or what purpose it has for her. More specifically, she’s staring at it like it would give further insight into what, exactly, was just going through Donatello’s head. She’s heard him excited, yes, about success in the lab, or with their security upgrades, or when he’s bested himself at online chess. And even then, he usually loses himself in the moment and forgets she’s there. It’s rare that he openly exposes himself to her like that.

But, then again…he did it last night, didn’t he? Exposed himself emotionally, bared his vulnerabilities to her…gave her access to his mind and heart. The kind of access she thought would never be given, not by any of them but especially not him. Some part of her is a little frightened, startled to think she can make him feel such strong, powerful emotions. The rest of her is enamored, delighted, and clings to the memory of the night with greedy fingers and a possessive heart.

Last night…last night, he was _hers_. Truly and completely hers. She’s not sure she can fully comprehend it. But it’s a truth, no matter how confusing or perplexing a truth it may be. A reality imprinted upon her memory and still lingering upon her skin.

***

“My sons,” Sensei addresses the gathered before gesturing to the woman at his side, “allow me to make the formal introduction. This is Celine.”

Leonardo smiles quietly, a gesture which she returns; Mikey gives her a quick glance-over, his gaze contemplative; Raphael leans against the far wall, arms crossed tightly while his eyes examine her, more intently and more suspiciously. Donatello enters the room, tucking his phone in a pocket on his belt; he meets her eye and nods respectfully.

“Celine,” Sensei continues, “may I present my sons. Raphael,” he gestures to the hulking form, which concedes to give a short, brisk nod, “Michelangelo,” the youngest gives a little wave, almost like a child who thinks he might like her but isn’t quite sure yet, “and Donatello.”

The latter nods again, “We’ve met, Sensei.” He says shyly, though with a small smile, “Last night.”

Raphael gives an irritated sound and fixes Leo with a glare. “What, you gave _him_ a private intro?”

Leo barely blinks. “He’s older than you. Special privileges follow.”

She draws her lips inward, briefly, to hide the smile that threatens to appear. Donatello shares what she thinks is a smirk with his eldest brother, while Raphael scowls heavily in the corner. Sensei sighs, shakes his head, and returns his gaze to Leo. “My son,” he says, “it appears your trust has not been misplaced. I think Celine shall fit in well with our family.”

“Many thanks, Sensei.” She murmurs, bowing her head slightly. She’ll take the approval and ignore how many hours of interrogation she managed to endure before he finally stopped calling her “Miss West”— _Like father, like son_ , she smiles to herself—and then another two hours of further discussion as to her “intentions” with Leonardo. It’s all worth it, if she has his blessing in the end.

After a thoughtful pause, she looks around the kitchen. It’s rather empty and barren; small wonder April makes most of their meals, save for pizza.

Inspired, she looks back at the brothers with a smile. “Anyone hungry?” she asks, propping her hands lightly on both hips. “Give me an hour and I can make you guys dinner.”

“Really?” Mikey asks, perking up almost immediately. “What do you make?”

“Whatever you guys want.” She answers, her smile growing, “But, as Leo can tell you, I make a _mean_ steak dinner.”

The look the comes over the youngest brother’s face is pure adoration, and in about five seconds she’s wrapped in a tight hug with his cheek resting on her shoulder. “We’re keeping her.” He declares fondly.

Leo rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Mind your hands, baby brother.” He warns, tone carrying a hint of teasing that belies his attempt at scolding. “I’m watching you.”

She laughs, pats Mikey’s shoulder, and slips from his affectionate embrace. “Alright, then. I’ll be back soon. One hour. Time me if you’d like.” She adds, throwing a wink at the youngest, then makes for the exit. She can hear Mikey already bursting into enthusiastic raptures over the forthcoming meal, praising Leo for his choice. At least she’s won over most of the family; she’ll just have to figure out what earns Raphael’s approval, and everything will be perfect.

“Celine,”

She pauses mid-step, turns, and finds Donatello approaching her. He’s fully equipped with all his gear, goggles strapped to the top of his head, and he’s holding what looks suspiciously like a set of lock picks. She lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. Whatever he’s planning on doing, it’s not her business and, she’s sure, it can’t be terribly illegal.

“What’s up, Donatello?” she asks, smiling at him.

“Would you be able to, um…” he gestures with one hand, clearly looking for the right words, “you know, put some of the dinner aside…like a…um…?”

She considers him for a minute, and then it clicks. The lock picks, the way he’s geared up and ready to head out, even at a relatively-early hour, and now his request. Her smile grows and she sets a gentle hand to his shoulder. “A picnic?”

He looks extremely relieved and nods. “Yes. Yes, a picnic. If, I mean, it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” She reassures. “One picnic for two, coming right up.”

***

On first glance, April’s beginning to wonder if she has the right address. This building, while not the worst she’s ever since, is certainly what her grandmother would call a “fixer-upper”: no window panels, peeling paint on the ledges, dirt and various other smudges on the brick exterior, and the door frame (and door itself, frankly) need replacing. She can’t see inside, with all the windows boarded up from the inside or covered in plastic wrap, but she can only imagine it’s not much better.

But, on the other hand, its placement is actually quite nice. There’s a grocery about four blocks north; a few small business scattered around, probably family-owned, and there isn’t too much evidence of local gang activity here. The surrounding businesses are clear of graffiti, and other than being a modest, albeit borderline run-down area, there isn’t much in the way of vandalism. It looks like a decent, albeit humble, place to live a quiet life. Probably a small family community, or possibly for retirees. There are certainly far worse places in this city.

“Hey,” Donnie’s voice catches her attention from the left, where he appears from the shadows. He’s sporting his electrical pack and associated gear, carrying his tool box and another large bag, its contents unknown, in one hand, while the other is rummaging in his belt for something. A minute later, he retrieves a set of lock picks and makes for the door. She watches, amused and intrigued, as he snaps the goggles down over his eyes, sets the box and bag down on the concrete, and crouches down in front of the large padlock on the door.

Looking to be somewhat helpful—she still has no idea why they’re here, after all—she stoops down and gathers his tool box. She’s halfway reaching for the mysterious bag when the lock opens with a loud _click_ , and he opens the door with an equally loud _groan_ from the hinges. He reaches for the bag before she can, then with his free hand captures hers. She feels a strange, but not unpleasant, tingle at the contact, or maybe it’s because _he_ initiated the touch. He almost never touches her of his free will.

“Come on,” he says, gently tugging her forward. He’s returned the goggles to his head, replaced his glasses, and now she can see the full extent of his excitement written all over his face. It’s childlike, but infectious; she feels herself smiling, even if only because she loves seeing him this way.

“So,” he says, taking her into the room; he sets the bag down, takes the tool box from her and sets it down, and then, to the fluttering of her stomach, takes both her hands and begins guiding her through the area, “you’ll probably have to use your imagination, but just bear with me. This,” he doesn’t even give her a chance to agree, disagree, or otherwise before he’s launching into a frenzied explanation, “is the first floor. You can make it a lobby area, of sorts, with some chairs over there and, if you wanted to hire a receptionist, you could put a desk on that wall. Nothing too fancy, just simple and professional for when clients walk in.”

He frees one hand, briefly, to gesture to the surrounding walls, “And you can paint these and put up some décor and make it pleasant to look at—not just for your clients, but for people who walk past.” He nods to the exterior. “You’ll probably want to replace the glass, something more weather-resistant and durable. It should be easy enough to find; there’s a hardware store just down the street, about two blocks. And they might even be able to redo the flooring. I was thinking wood, but tile might be better for the snow and rain. Either way.”

Her eyes are starting to hurt, having been darting from side to side, up and down, wall to floor, outside to inside, with his every gesture and helpful suggestion. He’s even talking about putting some plants in here, because plants are very agreeable to the human vision and if she gets the right kind, they’ll be easy enough to maintain and not require too much effort. He runs off a few recommendations, and then he’s talking about the, admittedly, sorry state of the door frame. At best, as she can see with the flashlight he’s currently running along its shape, it’s rotted from water damage, possibly something else she doesn’t want to think about. It definitely needs to go. But, as he then says, the hardware store will be able to help with it.

“And now,” his voice interrupts her thoughts, tugging her towards a small staircase, “the second floor,” she follows him—or rather, is brought along with him—up the stairs and down a short hallway, through an open doorframe and into a larger room, “I know we’ll need to put in a door.” He says, before she even needs to make a comment, and then turns to the rest of the room. “Anyway, I thought maybe you could put a desk right over here, beneath the windows, or maybe have it off to the side. But if you look at it, you could have as big a desk as you want! Even a bookshelf, maybe over on this side, or on the opposite wall,” he gestures to both, hand moving animatedly in time with his words, “and there would be plenty of room for some extra furniture, like a couch or small sofa and some chairs, or you could have another bookshelf if you wanted. But I thought it would be a good place for your actual office, lots of room and, without those windows, lots of natural light. You wouldn’t need to invest too much in additional light fixtures, unless you really wanted to, and…”

Again, she loses track of what he’s saying, as she takes in the room. The flooring looks decently intact, though it probably needs a good cleaning, and the walls are absent the damage from downstairs. The windows, though bare and without proper paneling, are indeed massive and will allow for plenty of light. She thinks she likes the idea of putting a desk beneath them, where she can turn and have a view outside whenever she wants. And she has two bookshelves which will look perfect along each wall.

His hand captures hers again, tugging to a dark corner of the room without pause. Her eyebrow lifts, “Don?”

“Come on, come on,” he says, now sounding as breathless as before, when he’d called her and half-begged her to meet here, at this place, without any real explanation; she feels as though she has the explanation now, but then again, he has managed to surprise her before, “this is the best part of all.”

He brings her into the darkness, hand still holding hers close. She can see little; it is pitch-black here, and she can barely make out the form of his body. It is a marvel to her, really, how he can live in shadows without a struggle. But, more importantly, it means she can trust him now more than ever. He can see where she is blind, and she knows he won’t let her fall or trip or be harmed in any way.

“Step up here,” he says; she obeys, surprised to feel stairs beneath her feet and what feels like an iron rail brushing her side; he continues taking her up, up, up, up what must be a spiral staircase. Each step taking them higher into shadows, higher than she thought possible; ten steps, then fifteen, then after twenty, she loses count. He has both hands holding hers, and her mind is now refocused on how large his hands are, how broad the palms are and how long the fingers are, the rough and calloused texture of his skin encompassing hers, swallowing hers, and never letting go.

_Am I still breathing?_

Suddenly, the darkness is broken by light; dimmed, like a streetlamp, but enough to illuminate and interrupt the heavy shadows. She sees his silhouette first, then the details of his shape and face appear, and then he is guiding her up through a large hatch and onto the bare, dusty landing of another room. Or rather, she sees, a series of rooms. 

“I know it’s not much right now,” Donatello says, bringing her further into the room before releasing both hands and turning to gesture excitedly about, “but the foundations here are solid. There’s a potential for at least four, maybe even _five_ rooms. You’d just need to designate and determine which ones, and where. That room back there,” he points, “already has the necessary plumbing system to be a full bathroom—sink, shower, the whole package. Of course, you’ll want to hire the best renovation team possible, but whatever they don’t do, or can’t, or it isn’t what you want or can be improved, I’ll take care of it. And I’ll build you a special door down below, one only you’ll have access to,” _And you guys_ , she thinks but doesn’t say aloud, not yet, “and I can polish up the entrance,” he points to the hatch, “if you’d like, so it isn’t just an open hole in the floor.”

He pauses, turns back to her, and the excitement is more apparent than ever before, “Do…do you see it, April? You don’t have to deal with two separate buildings. It’s all right here! Your office down below, and up here, your new living space. And it can be separate—like I said, I’ll build you a door, even a secret entrance, if you’d like! Just tell me what you want, and consider it done. And we can all help you with whatever you’d like, decorating or building or whatever. And don’t worry about the security system; I’ve got it covered. I’ll build you a system in here that can link to our city-wide network, and all entrances will be covered. And, and,” his breath hitches a bit, practically shaking now, “it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from the lair! We’re right there, almost under your feet!”

She’s not quite sure what her face must look like right now, but whatever expression is there must be enough to merit concern on his part. His enthusiasm cools, just a bit, and he takes a tentative step forward. “Do…do you like it…?”

_Like it?_ Her brain tries to wrap around the question and formulate a proper answer. To “like” something meant it was acceptable, passable, or perhaps was worthy of some small approval. To “like” something meant it wasn’t quite what you’d planned on, or hoped for, but it was good enough and so you’d take it with good grace and a little smile.

“Like it.” She repeats distantly, bringing both hands down to her side, releasing a slow breath, and turning slowly in place to take in a full view of the room. Of the many potential rooms that can be brought out from this place. Of the unbelievable, incredible, mind-blowing, jaw-dropping _wonder_ that is this room and this place.

He looks ready to say something else, but whatever it is, it never comes out, because she throws herself into his arms, winding hers around his neck, and embracing him like she’s never embraced another living being in her life.

“Donnie, I _love_ it!!” she cries, elation bursting from her voice into the silence. “I love it, I love it, _I love it_!! Everything is perfect! _Everything!_ How did, when did… _how_ did you find it?”

He looks rather startled by her sudden reaction, but her question seems to pull him out of the stupor. “I…I saw it early this morning, when I left your place.” In the dim light, she wonders if there isn’t a little blush creeping over his cheeks at the memory of last night. “I had to take a detour, because of a late-night party down the street from your apartment, and I ran across this building. I guess…well, you know how my mind is…I see something and my imagination runs wild.”

She’s grinning like a fool and doesn’t care. “It’s perfect, Don. Absolutely perfect. My God, I could kiss you!” she releases him and twirls, like a little girl, around the room, arms extended to the ceiling and eyes wide and smile radiating delight. “I love it. I love it so much.”

After a few short minutes, she looks back at him, leaning against a pillar with a smile. She suspects he’s smiling at her childish antics, but who cares?

“I’m glad.” He says, softer than she’d expected. “I…I’m really glad. I’d hoped it would be what you wanted.”

She tilts her head, strolling forward, and sets both hands to his shoulders. “You knew it would be.” She murmurs, stroking idly with her thumbs. “You…you knew. You knew.” Her smile grows. “You know me better than anyone, Donnie. You always have, I think.”

He stares at her, a thousand thoughts running unchecked across his features. After a moment, he finds his voice; unsteady and barely a whisper, but still audible. “Always?”

“In the lab,” she nods, stepping a little closer to him, “I told Dad you were the smartest. I knew, always, you understood what I was saying. Sometimes I thought you knew what I was thinking.” Another step forward, “And it looks like I was right.”

For a moment, she thinks there is something else he wants to say, some thought he wants to express or confess, but it never comes. Instead, he releases a low, shuddering breath, and nods over to the corner, where he’s set the tool box and the mystery bag. “I asked Celine for a special request.”

“Oh?”

He smiles, shyly, and she thinks it’s the most adorable expression ever. “Steak dinner for two.” He shrugs idly, “She was making dinner for the family, and I thought…well, if you wanted to…”

“Celebrate?” she finishes; at his nod, she grins and nods eagerly, “Then let’s do it.”

In under half an hour, they’ve set up the prepared meal—steaks, baked potatoes wrapped hot in foil, warm bread rolls, steamed vegetables, and cobbler, as well as a bottle of apple cider; Celine has outdone herself this time—on a small area of the floor she managed to sweep relatively dust-free. She smiled when he produced a little blanket for them to use, a simple purple and white checked pattern upon which they are currently resting.

Her eyes drift over the room once again, unable to keep a smile from her face as she lazily twirls a cider-filled glass between her fingers. “You really outdid yourself, Don.”

“Just wait.” He says, nodding confidently. “I’ll build you a secret bookshelf downstairs for your door, if you want.”

“Complete with the special book to pull out and release the secret entrance?” she teases.

He shakes his head. “That’s been done before.” He grins at her. “I’ll make it accessible only by fingerprint. Or with a retina scan.”

Her smile broadens, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you how fascinating that brain of yours is?”

He swallows, almost choking on a bit of potato, and then fiddles with a roll between his hands. “Oh, well…” he trails off, and she knows if she looked, he’d be blushing. It really is a pity, she thinks, that he doesn’t get compliments enough, or at least that he isn’t able to take them without stuttering and blushing. Then again, it could be a mark of his humility, his determination to always out-best himself, break his own records, and constantly improve upon what he has created. His is a mind always thinking ahead, always moving forward; one wild, crazy ride with which she loves going along. And she’ll barrel down the tracks with him until the trip is done, and then it’s on to the next ride.

She rests against him a moment more in silence, then looks up at him with a playful expression. “So…how soon do you want to start work?”


End file.
